It's the Freakin' Weekend: Pt. 3 (Sunday)

[Cheers to wrapping up last weekend about a week behind schedule!]

Sunday

               

Sunday morning started with birds singing and J₁’s bicycle spokes clicking their way across the lawn. The weather was perfect for outdoor sleeping; all wispy clouds, light breezes and brief sun breaks. Piled high with blankets and pillows, the deck futon was entirely too comfortable. J1 came up the stairs and collapsed into our warm body puppy pile to tell us all about her Saturday night (at least the pieces she could remember). Eventually J₂ surfaced with coffee and quiche. A gray cat cleaned her ears and napped in the tall grass. The half-naked folks on the other side of the fence drank liquor like it was apple juice and begged for cigarettes. J₃ offered us mushroom caps, “just enough to make the world kind of shiny”, somebody passed around a pipe. I closed my eyes and let music pulse in my throat. I smoked cigarettes and drank coffee until my hands trembled. I blinked and it was 4 o’ clock.

C decided for her last day in town she would introduce me to Dots, ostensibly to see their velvet painting collection and meet a fella named Ruby. You guys, if you ever get a chance to visit Dots, take a close look at the 3D Spaniel painting. That one was totes my favorite. What I drew from this experience: C knows some strange and wonderful people, some seriously loveable weirdos. We passed the early evening playing pool, drinking whiskey and eating hummus. J₁ flashed children. There was face painting, clothes swapping and spontaneous tree climbing. Somewhere in the middle of everything my mouth lost the ability to form sensible words, so I just smiled, just took it all in. I let myself ride out the tides of other people’s conversations.

Eventually we wrangled everybody up, piled into C’s car and headed back to the Craft House to drop off J₁ before the poetry slam. I don’t know how many of you have attended a poetry slam, but I recommend you all look into attending one as soon as humanly possible. Some heavy contenders competed in this particular slam, including the man who basically created the Portland slam scene. For those of you who don’t know: a slam is a spoken-word competition. Contestants each recite a poem (these tend to have a lot of internal rhyme scheme) about whatever the funk they wanna, and the audience uses their magical powers of standing to determine the winner. Last beast standing wins a pretty princess crown, some sort of prize (for instance: a used Lite-Brite) and heaps of street cred. Ok, maybe not the street cred. But apparently there’s some sort of complicated internal point system and the winner will actually get to go to some big competition somewhere eventually.  Unfortunately, they got robbed… If you wanna give ‘em your money, they’ll take it.

This is my newest aspiration: to grow up and be a slam poet. I know, I know. Maybe not the most feasible plan and I may be donating plasma the rest of my life. But the feelings in that room every Sunday night, the degree of passion pouring out of those poets is fucking inspiration at its purest. They make me want to start writing and never stop. The poems I am currently working on address alcoholism, childhood abuse and Burmese pythons. Don’t even trip, I promise they will all be moderately bearable.

After having our minds metaphorically blown, our only logical last stop was Stripparaoke. By this point I was definitely calculating the hours of sleep accrued over a four day span and coming up ridiculously short considering the work week was set to begin in t-minus 6 hours.  My basic survival instincts found me standing on my front porch soaking wet, saying goodbye at 1 am. Thank you for walking me home. I’m sorry I didn’t get to hear you sing. I’m sorry I didn’t have the time you needed me to give, the words you needed me to say or the tears you needed me to cry. You’re going to be great, just let yourself be ok. Ok?

I love you all. Angels on your body.

-b

It's the Freakin' Weekend, Pt. 2 (Saturday)

[Hey kittens, here’s Pt. 2 of my long weekend adventure. Hope you’re still with me!]

Saturday

Crawling into my bed at 4:30 Saturday morning, I predicted long restful hours of undisturbed sleep. It’s been a long time since I pulled an all-nighter, and I was planning on milking this one for what it was worth. Unfortunately, me and bod weren’t on the same page. Conditioned into snapping awake every morning at 7 a.m. I managed about four hours of sleep before lurching back into consciousness. Unable to coax my mind back to sleep (considering the sizable number of things I needed to get done) I figured I could at least suck it up and be productive. By “be productive” I mean stumble downstairs and compare headaches with ULOL, then stare at the blinking cursor of a blank Word Document for several hours.

This pathetic display was thankfully interrupted by C dropping off coffee and a flower to brighten my day. Why am I surrounded by such incredible people? It will always surprise and delight me. Being her usual adventurous self, C invited me to a GLOW OUT party downtown that night. Take a second to conceptualize “GLOW OUT party” before we continue. Got an image? There may or may not be actual images at some point further on.

I decided a GLOW OUT was exactly what my muddled little brain needed, because seriously, why wouldn’t it be? First I had a rugby party/graduation/pig roast to attend.

Because sometimes you are a grown-up.

And sometimes you have grown-up friends who become doctors.

And sometimes those grown-up friends who become doctors know people who like to roast 85 lbs. of pig in a pit in their backyard.

So! Equipped with gigantic iced coffees and even bigger appetites, ULOL, roomie and I made the trek into deep Southwest for the celebration. Now, graduation parties can be awkward under the best circumstances. I feel like inviting a gang of rugby hooligans only compounds these situations. Maybe that’s just me? The gang of rugby hooligans at my graduation party... well that’s a story for another time. This friend’s family was extraordinarily gracious. We were fed, imbibed and left to our own entertainment devices.  I even packed home a 2 lb. bag of meat, which has been feeding me for the last 6 days! I just want to say: Thank you Dr, I know you are off into the great wide world to do big things (like save lives) and I wish you my very, very best.

Speaking of rugby players, damn we’re a bunch of weirdos! Here is the abridged version of a true story from Maggotfest:

·         Two Girl Scouts and a hotdog try to walk through the Taco Bell drive-through, and are denied their 4^th meal due to some stupid law, or something.

·         One drunken Girl Scout decides this is intolerable. So she waits until the next car is reaching for their order, and attempts to intercept said bag of goodies and make a clean escape.

·         Attempted interception somehow ends in the Girl Scout holding two girls by the hair with Taco Bell guts dripping down her face.

·         After drunken Girl Scout is booked for assault, the “victim” is too distraught to provide a report of the incident, and just continues sobbing: Ask the hotdog! The hotdog saw everything!

Seriously. This is my real grown-up life. I couldn’t make these things up if I tried. After consuming indecent quantities of food and a lengthy discussion about the pros and cons of LARPing, it was time to mob downtown for the GLOW party.

When you pictured a GLOW PARTY earlier, I hope you imagined plenty of partial nudity, fluorescent colorsand light-reactive body paint. Upon arrival I was promptly painted, handed a beer and diving into the fray. The DJ was experimenting with some pretty interesting beats, some hybrid Franken-beat of dubstep and 20’s parlor music. Needless to say, it lent itself to plenty of wild hand movements and leg-kicking. Totally my scene. Add in circus performers, day-glo hula hoops and belly dancing? Marvelous. 

At the end of the night, we dragged our exhausted, painted arms and legs off the dance floor and piled into the Craft mobile. Back at the Craft House, we gathered a heap of blankets and opted to sleep on the deck futon. Falling asleep to birdsong two nights in a row, my sleepy little bod sank into the void. 

Stay posted for Sunday! 

All my love.

-b

[P.S. You guys! Last night I saw Andrea Gibson and Tara Hardy perform at the 2410 down on Mississippi. Swoon. I am going to be a poet when I grow up, ok? Ok]

It's the Freakin' Weekend, Pt. 1 (Friday)

Ok. I think I’ve finally recovered enough to tell you about this weekend. Yes, I realize my last update was approximately one week ago. Seriously guys, you have no idea what all I’ve been up to. Mostly because I haven’t told you yet. Before we get into that, did you catch the Dance Moms 2-hour mid-season special? Did you feel like a whole hour of “Abby’s OMG Moments” was a total rip-off? If you don’t have two hours of brand new, demoralizing footage, don’t say you do! Am I right?

I have an overwhelming amount of information to pass on to you guys. Seriously, I outlined it all and I’m tempted to just post the outline and let you fill in all the blanks… like a Mad Lib, but with more debauchery. Well! Let’s get to it.

Friday

When last we saw each other I was setting off on the adventure known as “weekend”… If only I knew what I was getting myself into. From my kitchen table I trekked across town to the club for C’s last night of work. I’ve realized I might actually miss my trips out to 122^nd. I got to know a few of the girls out there and they are lovely. And there’s something to be said for spending time in a place that everyone wants to see you take your clothes off. I know, that sounds strange, but hear me out. Obvs there are some weirdos who congregate to the clubs, the sort of men offering dancers $5 to lick their feet. But there are also some really decent people there, people who have their degrees in forensics, or are taking care of their sick mother and just needed a break. Maybe I’m a sucker, but I feel like there are so many lonely people out there just looking for some sort of human connection. I know, I know: patriarchy, objectification and the male gaze. But anyways. There’s that.

One of the dancers was working on her birthday, which is obviously the perfect excuse to tie someone to a pole and slap her in the face with breasts. While that was going on, I hung out with the bouncer and somehow got him talking. Keep in mind this fella has been working in clubs for 18 years now. Homie’s got some horror stories. I’m not going to go into detail here, because I think my mom still reads it once in a while, but oh my god. Let me leave it at this: “double-ended dildo” and “three rectal stitches”.

Once C said goodbye to all the ladies, we decided the best course of action was to do what she deemed “real dancing” and I mostly think of as enthusiastic flailing. We made it downtown with only one minor incident (that instant you realize there’s spilled transmission fluid in your car and you’re not sure where that lit cigarette butt just went…), and found parking so easily it was practically an act of god.

Now those of you that know me know I’m not a great dancer. Enthusiastic? Absolutely. Good? It’s debatable. Furthermore, I loathe the uber-sexual bumpandgrind most dance clubs tout as the end-all of dancing. I’m a lot of sharp elbows and jumping up and down; not so much with the vertical hump. 

So when I step out on the dance floor and almost instantly get mauled by a little lesbo bear, all I can do is laugh and evade.

b: What’s her name again?

C: Destiny.

b: Are you fucking with me right now?

But Destiny and her pals were lovely, and bought us drinks, and ended up closing down the club with us. The highlight to all of this strobed-out, techno madness had to be us four lesbians enthusiastically belting out every word to Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” dance remix. When the lights came up we said our goodbyes and promised to look each other up without actually exchanging any sort of personal information. If we meet again, it’ll be Destiny.

At this point I realized I had absolutely no idea where my car keys were. I checked all of my many pockets, searched the dance floor and inquired with a very tall drag queen, to no avail. The only logical thing to do was to amble back to the Biscuit, keeping our eyes peeled for that tell-tale Moose Drool bottle opener. Luckily, my keys weren’t lost. They were safe and sound in the ignition of my locked car. Along with my debit card and both of our phones. I might regret telling you all this, but Dodge Neon might be the easiest car in the entire world to break into, if you’ve got the right equipment. Unfortunately there weren’t any rigid metal objects just lying around in the streets of downtown Portland.

C spotted a security officer patrolling around a building across the street and suggested he might be able to loan us a cell phone. Which was a great idea, except neither of us had anyone to call. Damn cell phones! Remember when you used to have all of your friend’s numbers memorized? The good old days.

We decided to approach said fella anyways, just in case he could offer any sage advice. I mean he was a man in a uniform, right? He had to have some sagacity. We asked if he could help us “break into that little red car over there”, and he didn’t even miss a beat. He practically ran inside to find us a coat hanger and a wedge. Then he proceeded to help pry the window open while I finagled the lock.

C: Does this sort of thing happen to you a lot?

Officer: Not really. Sometimes people steal my cones, but I think they’re construction workers.

While I will never hire him to help safeguard my valuable possessions, I’m definitely thankful to that bored security officer. Acts of vandalism stir up an appetite, so our natural next step was to find food. We tracked down The Roxy. This is a place you need to experience. Even if you just sit down and read their menu and then leave. Clever bastards.

Waiter: Merry fucking Christmas, kids.

b: Wait, what?
Waiter: Every day is Christmas, goddammit. If it weren’t I’d have to off myself. Whatdaya want?

What we wanted was apparently a strange, minty quesadilla and a gravy/cheese/fries meteorite the size of an infant.

Walking back to the car at 4 a.m., the birds were already starting to sing. I haven’t seen that side of sunrise in a long time, and it was kind of amazing. I mean, I probably won’t make a habit of it or anything, but seriously. The sky lightening into that hazy purple grey? That’s the color of god.

Parts 2 and 3 to follow shortly!

I love you fools more than you know.

-b

It's Been the Worst Day Since Yesterday.

I’m going to be blunt with you guys, this week has been fucking horrid. I’m ready to fall into my bed and sleep for a day or maybe a week. Everything seems to be crashing in on itself, my mind crashing in on itself and I’m left with this worthless, deflated shell wrapped around a dream, or the idea of a dream. Like reality is smoke curling around my outstretched fingers, lingering an ephemeral second before leaving me empty-handed again. I want to stand in the middle of the street and just scream and scream until my throat feels as raw as my emotions.

But let’s face it, I live in a respectable neighborhood. People can’t just scream in the streets around here. So I stuff my hands deep into my empty pockets and walk. Just walk until the storm finally starts and those fatty fucking raindrops start to wash away some of the frustration. I beg the sky for a baptism, or at least a shower because I haven’t had time to take one this week. When those raindrops start exploding like little shrapnel bombs on the sidewalk and my bare arms, I could laugh until I cry. Or cry until I laugh about the absurdity of it all. Laugh or cry until that clenched fist in my throat starts to relax a little.

There’s so much to life. So many things to fear or love or both. To hold sacred and experience. So many things to shake us up, beat us down, overwhelm us, keep us sane or drive us crazy. There’s just so much. Trying to take it all in can leave you torn wide open. But in the end it’s all a matter of perception. We are all the human being story we keep telling ourselves.

“My father’s mind always worked that way. If you don’t like the things you remember, then all you have to do is change the memories. Instead of remembering the bad things, remember what happened immediately before. That’s what I learned from my father. For me, I remember how good that first drink of that Diet Pepsi tasted instead of how my mouth felt when I swallowed a wasp with the second drink.”

--Sherman Alexie

So. Instead of recklessly pouring all of this negative energy into the blogosphere, I’ma subject you guys to a practice in perception. Because there are two sides to every cloud, and coins sometimes have a silver lining, right? Right.

1. My rent is painfully high. Because I live in a good neighborhood. A neighborhood where crazy people don’t stand in the middle of the street and scream for no apparent reason. I live in a neighborhood where I can walk down the street and not worry about having my face eaten by a naked potential-zombie drug addict. All things considered, things could be a whole lot worse. I have lilac bushes in my backyard.  

2. I’ve been eating rice and beans for a month now. Which means I haven’t been hungry. Sometimes I can afford to throw a handful of spinach or half an onion into the mix. And there always seems to be enough money for hot sauce, no matter how dire my situation. Worse comes to worst, there’s a Taco Bell down the street and their fire sauce is one of my favorite things in the whole world. So there’s that. Things I’m looking forward to rediscovering once my finances settle out: avocados and Secret Aardvark sauce.  

3. I have to donate plasma to pay my bills. I have a body healthy enough to donate plasma. Seriously you guys, I could have a debilitating illness or a communicable disease. I could have hepatitis or HIV, and then I wouldn’t even have the option of donating plasma. I could be a hemophiliac, or anemic. Since contracting the plague at Maggotfest, I haven’t been able to donate plasma. Let me tell you, I’ve come to appreciate my health and the benefits that come along with it.  

4. I have accrued an incredible amount of medical debt. Because I had access to quality medical care when I needed it most. I stand to regain full use of my knee, and I’ve been educated on ways to maintain the integrity of my joints. Not to mention the fact that being incapable of running has made me that much more passionate about it. Things are hard right now, I took a bad step and I’m paying for it. That sentence is so literal it hurts. But! It’s been a learning experience.  

5. I’m working a dead end job with an inept boss. But! Recognizing this means I will not wake up in 25 years and wonder why I’m still working the same dead end job for the same inept boss. There’s something to be said for discomfort. It keeps us moving, keeps us seeking. I’m far from complacent. I’m ready to start following my Dreams (whatever shape they take), and in the meantime I’m capable of paying my bills. I’m not trapped, just biding my time. Because I know that there is more out there, and that I deserve it.

6. This week has felt like the longest, hardest week of my life…. which means it’s over! And tonight I have plans, and friends to act them out with. Also, I'm wearing 6 neon jelly bracelets, which I won at the nickel arcade playing skee ball with C. Also also, I played Big Buck Hunter on Wednesday night, and it was a blast (pun!) even though Friend slayed me. Things are going to be ok. 

Alright guys, thanks for playing along. I feel a heap better. I hope you do too. Now to embark on the endless adventure known figuratively as “Weekend”. 

I love you all the days.

-b

P.S. Did you guys know things like this actually happen in real life? I cried all three times I watched it.